


Code of the Swifts

by wilhuffnpuff



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: M/M, Motti is a hard man to like, because i love obscure side characters nobody cares about, but he totally knows that and owns it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:02:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22792921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilhuffnpuff/pseuds/wilhuffnpuff
Summary: In which Conan needs a little help understanding the concept of courtship during an inspection on a rival Admiral's Star Destroyer.
Relationships: Conan Motti/OC
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	Code of the Swifts

**Author's Note:**

> I had always thought to myself that Conan, sanctimonious as he is, is a great character. Motti's incident with Darth Vader is one of the first times that we see force powers being utilized, which puts Motti in a unique position of honor ( or more accurately, gleeful dishonor ). So anyway, this fic is the result when you slap a Wooster-esque character into Star Wars. 
> 
> This is total nonsense and literally no one asked for this.
> 
> Nonetheless, I make it my business to provide.

Attraction is the damndest weird thing, Talfryn Swift thinks to himself as he stands face to face with the Chief of the Imperial Navy.

It has been an uneasy courtship. This is exacerbated by the fact that one of the parties in this courtship, Conan Motti, probably isn’t aware that it is even happening in the first place.

There’s nothing particularly remarkable about Conan Motti at first glance—an early thirties human male, about 6 foot, compromised hairline, sporting the haughtiness of old money aristocracy. He’d blend seamlessly into a sea of men who occupy high rankings within the Imperial military, his physical appearance barely differentiating him in any crowd, with the exception that he is remarkably young for someone of his rank and he is from one of the wealthiest families occupying Seswenna.

The Swifts meanwhile are descended from a long line of conquerers, their ancestry traceable at least a millennia back, a breed of men who exercised their might over the land before the advent of flying crafts and hyperdrive tech. Capturing nations and assimilating the philosophies, culture and religions of foreign men.

Now, the Swifts are in control of a gargantuan biscuit empire, galactic in scope.

A precipitous fall, in the eyes of young Talfryn. Once when he was a little boy whilst playing in his father’s study on a luxurious carpet passed down nearly seven generations, holding a mock tribunal with his prized nexu, wampa and tauntaun action figurines, he posed what he thought was a very advanced question to his father:

“Father, why don’t we sell weapons? Like the Hawthorne family does?”

Father had rumbled wearily from his antique mahogany desk, engrossed in some kind of paperwork: “Everyone _likes_ biscuits, Talfryn. The weapons trade is _crowded_.” He’d looked down at his son, an adorable thing with mussed golden locks, and shaken his head with deep resignation. The precocious boy would be the death of him—he knew it then, and so it became.

Swift, now in command of an Imperial-class Star Destroyer, makes an almost-but-not-quite imposing figure standing at nearly six foot five inches. Unfortunately he is a bit lanky for his height and this sabotages his authority. But that is not at the forefront of his concern. The thing that occupies his mind is the odd hole in the heart—distinctly conquerer-shaped—felt keenly as he maintains a vigil in front of the Dauntless Arbiter’s bridge tower viewport, boots planted firmly apart.

“You _do_ know _why_ I’m here, don’t you, Admiral Swift?” Motti stands in front of Swift, silhouetted against a backdrop of stars.

Swift tilts his head slightly, sharp sunny-dispositioned blue eyes meeting Conan’s. “In spite of my…excessive enthusiasm, Sir—the Rebel ambush was neutralized.” He pauses for a beat, his tone brightening. “And dare I say…. _very_ quickly.”

Motti intones dryly: “Neutralized while simultaneously destroying the Imperial outpost that you were summoned to protect. Brilliant job, Talfryn. Wonderful.”

A flash of a petulant eye-roll, and Swift counters: “My calculation at the time was that the outpost would be lost regardless of our intervention. It was severely damaged by the time we emerged from hyperdrive and the cost of such extensive repairs would surely dwarf the cost of simply building a new outpost from scratch. Therefore, the next best thing was to make a show of Imperial might and turn it all into dust.”

“I can have this ship decommissioned with a single keystroke,” Motti says with intensifying heat, holding up his datapad. “And perhaps you’d care to tell me why I shouldn’t demote you down to Ensign.”

“Because you need the Grand Moff to sign off on that, and he is not yet convinced the Dauntless needs to be decommissioned.”

Conan balks for a moment, marveling at the nerve.

Swift smiles distantly and looks away from Motti, focusing his gaze on the stars beyond the viewport as he continues. “You are here in a fruitless attempt to nab me on some other technicality, some _fantastical_ dysfunction on my ship that you can bend into a nigh-treasonous offense, after which you will then conveniently banish me to some cushy post in the depths of the Outer Rim where nothing of any import ever happens. And I tell you…with utmost respect, Sir—that I will have _none_ of it!”

An exasperated sound escapes Conan’s lips. What else is there to say to such a man as impudent as the likes of Talfryn Swift? All these aristocratic types, they’re all the same—big family, big wealth, big ego, with the individuality of a pile of sawdust and personality of drying paint. Of course one could also say the same about Motti himself, and surely there are many people who do, but at the very least he _worked_ hard for his position. One doesn’t become a Joint Chief by sitting on his bloody hands and having a father who owns a fucking biscuit corporation, that’s for certain.

Blood, sweat, metal and grit. The relentless acquisition of power and successful navigation through the choppy waters of political intrigue.

These are the elements from which top _quality_ Imperial leadership is forged.

A perusal of Swift’s record in the privacy of Motti’s quarters the previous night had indicated that the late-twenty-something Admiral was a prodigious student and that he breezed through the naval Academy effortlessly as a fart in the wind. An idiot savant. _How utterly fucking annoying_ , Motti thought to himself as he disgustedly closed out Swift’s file and instead turned to _The Unabridged Historical Record of Coruscant Volume 3_. Soon he fell into a peaceful slumber in front of the stark holoprojected prose of Pennelegion, his eminent historian of choice.

Conan, if nothing else, is a man who does things by the rules, down to the letter. He will not have a reckless Admiral occupying a spot in his fleet, if he could help it.

“I am going to tour _every inch_ of this ship,” Conan lifts a finger to Swift’s face. “….and if I find _anything_ suspect—“

Swift, lowering his gaze to Motti’s eye level: “Let me guess, Conan.” He smiles again, with mock empathetic pity. “You’ll file another incident report.”

With a flush of red across his full cheeks and a resigned sigh, Motti disengages and pushes past Swift, summoning his Stormtrooper guards to follow.

“Good luck, Admiral!” Swift calls out, watching as the Chief of the Imperial Navy takes his leave.

Left to the privacy of his own thoughts, Swift wonders what it is about the Chief that he likes so much. Motti is not exactly the most likable of men. There are certainly more things to _dislike_ than like, and his personality is abrasive even on the best of days. But there is one thing that Swift knows for certain that he likes, and it has to do with foreheads.

Or more specifically, brain matter. When one has a big forehead, it logically follows that one has a big brain. He knows Conan is smart—very smart indeed, though the man seemingly does his best to sabotage it, bless his soul. Conan’s ruthless ambition and arrogant manner of speaking often gets the better of him, in spite of being big-brained. The most prominent example of this being the incident with Darth Vader, now a legendary tale amongst the Imperial elites. The incident report aggressively written and filed by Conan was mysteriously leaked into everyone’s inboxes, to make matters worse. Conan quickly changed his tune after that, lest he fall victim to blowback from his blustering.

At any rate, Swift enjoys this little game that they play. He finds himself rooting for the man, finds solidarity in the quest for dominance and meaning.

Attraction is just the damndest thing, Talfryn thinks to himself once again. But the heart wants what it wants, and giving up simply isn’t in the Swift credo. The code of the Swifts is to try and try and try yet again.

And yet one more time. If you must.

***

The chances of finding something awry on Swift’s vessel are not as high as Conan would hope. Reckless and brash as Swift’s combat style is, the man runs an orderly ship. His meteoric rise to the rank of Admiral was not for nothing.

When Conan reaches the gunner’s stations, he notes that there seem to be fifty missing personnel. The moment he pulls out his datapad to take notes on this infraction, Swift glides into the vast room, his boots clicking against the floor.

“Caf, Sir?” The Admiral of the Dauntless Arbiter proffers a steaming cup to his superior.

Conan hesitates and looks up from his datapad. “Is it black?”

“Black as the depths of your soul, Sir. I know how you like it.”

Conan does not appreciate the younger Admiral’s wit, but he takes the caf nonetheless. “Where are these gunners?” He gestures to the empty seats in the vicinity. “There should be two hundred and seventy-five and I only see two hundred and _twenty five_ here.”

“Oh, it’s Digby’s birthday.” Swift sips on his own caf, through a straw. “They’re off having a party in the gunnery crew quarters. He’s _very_ popular, Sir.”

“I couldn’t get five people to come to a party of mine, let alone fifty,” Conan muses.

“I’m sure that’s very untrue, Sir.”

“I didn’t _ask_ for your input,” Conan bristles, glaring up at Swift. “Anyway—this is insubordinate. You cannot allow the crew to have _birthday parties_ on the clock.”

Talfryn takes a long sip of caf through his straw. “Are fifteen-minute breaks not allowed, Sir?”

“Yes, however not all at once—“

“Then they are on a fifteen-minute break that happens to also be Digby’s birthday party.”

Conan looks up at Swift for a very long time, the room a dead silence until a lone MSE-6 droid scuttles past their feet. There is an insolence to Swift’s demeanor and yet…there’s something well-meaning about it that Conan can’t quite put his finger on. He finds his thoughts wandering, looking at Swift’s perfectly coiffed chestnut brown hair, the fine aristocratic angle of his nose, the long dark eyelashes.

Finally, Conan blurts out, arching a brow: “Who drinks caf through a straw, anyway? That’s just _absurd_.” He gestures impotently with his arms, in Swift’s general direction. “ _You’re_ absurd.”

“It’s ice caf. And besides—it prevents staining.”

“That’s a _myth_ ,” Conan smirks. “Unless that straw is jammed directly into the back of your throat, the caf is touching your teeth either way.”

Swift can think of something else he’d prefer jammed into the back of throat, but he wisely withholds from sharing this revelation. “I’ll issue a reminder to the gunners that breaks should be staggered between them, and not taken all at once.”

Conan turns away from Swift with a click of his tongue, hustling to his next destination. Swift joins him in the turbolift, leaning against the back wall and obnoxiously sipping at his caf. Motti closes his eyes and prays to the gods he doesn’t believe in that there is something, _anything_ he can do to tank Swift’s irritatingly promising military career.

A tour through Hangar Bay 1 reveals nothing of value. Arms folded behind his back, Conan walks and observes seventy-two TIES suspended on platforms as black jumpsuit-clad pilots meander, performing service checks and upgrades and maintenance on their craft. TIES up close are menacing things, deathtraps on wings.

Swift, meanwhile, cheerfully recites their names: “Oh, there’s Blackjack. And there’s Pence. And Cecil. Ah, and over there is Trafalgar. I believe we imported him from _your_ ship, Sir—The Steel Talon. A most excellent pilot.” Swift waves genially and Trafalgar, helmet-clad, counters with a thumbs up.

Conan wonders if there is a receptacle nearby for him to vomit into, as he responds witheringly: “Don’t get too attached, Talfryn. These TIES don’t come equipped with shielding.”

Swift laughs, strolling at Motti’s side. “You are too funny, Sir.”

They look at each other and share a brief smile, after which Conan quickly looks away, his expression giving way to subdued horror. He is _not_ here to crack jokes—he is here to find something to pin on Swift.

“How do you like it on the Death Star?” Swift inquires, clearing his throat.

The question grounds Conan and he recovers his smug veneer. “I like it. The Death Star is the _greatest_ power in the universe.”

“….so far.” Swift raises a finger.

“What do you mean, ‘so far’? What could be greater than a planet-killer?”

“More of them.”

“More? There’s only _one_. There will always only be _one_. Otherwise it symbolically wouldn’t be as impactful as it is.”

Swift squints and tilts his head. “Hm….I….don’t quite agree with that assessment, Sir. You assume that the Empire values symbolism over sheer might.”

“Of course it values symbolism. Symbolism is _everything_. Haven’t you read the Tarkin Doctrine?”

“I have. But my point still stands—” Swift squints again as he watches a gray-clad Imperial officer make his way to one of the TIE crafts. “—hold on, what’s _Digby_ doing here?” He gasps quietly as Digby the gunner walks up a platform to give a hug and peck on the cheek to a female TIE pilot. This is quickly followed by the couple covertly hiding away in the pilot’s vehicle, shutting the latch behind them. “ _Fraternizing_!! In front of my very eyes!”

Conan glances up at Swift, smiling in spite of himself. “Are you going to _discipline_ them?”

“Ah….I’m not going in there,” Swift wrinkles his nose slightly. “But _you’re_ welcome to it, Sir.”

Conan placidly types something into his datapad. “Let’s carry on, shall we?”

***

Next, they tour Hangar Bay 2. This enormously vast room houses the Dauntless Arbiter’s fleet of walkers, both AT-AT and AT-ST variety. If Conan is correct in his recollection, an Imperial-class Destroyer should house exactly twenty AT-ATs and thirty AT-STs. He observes the walkers, mechanical behemoths standing silently upright as teams of technicians perform diagnostics, repairs, and parts maintenance. Everything seems to be in order until he reaches a lone AT-AT tucked in the far corner of the hangar.

Conan stands and squints at it, unsure whether his eyes deceive him.

“Something the matter, Conan?” Swift suctions the last of his ice caf.

Conan frowns at Swift. “It’s gold.” He then looks back towards the offending AT-AT. “…. _why_ is it gold, Talfryn?”

Swift shrugs, chucking his empty cup away. “I don’t really know. But there’s no rule or statute against it. Metallic paint is cheap and it thus far seems to have boosted morale amongst the troops. So I don’t see anything wrong with it, really.”

Conan makes a sound, pressing fingers to his temple. “Oh…my fucking god.”

“With all due respect, Sir. Paint comes off.” Swift steadily plants himself, hands on hips, and adds quietly: “…eventually.”

A quick study of the Imperial Code of Conduct reveals that Swift is correct. Conan stares at his datapad in disbelief, frantically searching the statutes but finding nothing that specifically addresses regulations regarding AT-AT exteriors. He realizes, with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, that Swift has found a myriad of ways to run his vessel in an unorthodox manner yet still operate perfectly within regulation.

“I think I’ve seen enough.” Conan tucks his datapad away, straightens his uniform. He is being mocked. And he is clearly wasting his time—he knew it before but now it’s simply too apparent to ignore. The only way to discipline Swift is to simply wait until Swift fucks up so _tremendously_ , so blatantly…that disciplinary action would be warranted.

Sadly, this will never come to pass. Conan knows it, in the depths of his heart. Swift is far too conscientious and he is one to always successfully skirt the rules, forging his own way, his own path. It’s simply in his nature, probably. That pesky Swift bloodline with its vast pedigree of conquers, explorers, innovators. And it probably helps that Talfryn’s family is one of the wealthiest on Seswenna, with enough influence to let a relatively inexperienced man like him command an Imperial Destroyer.

Conan, flanked by his Stormtrooper guard, marches straight to back to the shuttle bay, hoping to fuck off back to the Death Star ASAP. “I’ll have an aide get back to you regarding my report,” he says to Swift. “Carry on with….whatever.”

“Are you alright, Sir?” Talfryn is quick on Motti’s heels. “You’ve only toured halfway—“

“It’s fine.” Conan lifts a dismissive hand. “Perhaps a fleet of gold AT-ATs would be a novel thing.”

“Ah…um…” Swift quickly races for time. “….there’s…one last thing you should see. Don’t you want to interview the Internal Affairs officer?”

Conan hesitates. As much as he’d like to disengage from this meeting with Swift, the man does bring up a point. The Internal Affairs officer is _integral_ to the operation of any Destroyer—this is an individual who has a keen finger on the pulse of the vessel, rooting out anyone who betrays any signs of treason, dissent or sedition. It would behoove Conan to at least carry on so that he can write a legitimate report—even if this report would ultimately prove to be useless towards his goals.

“Fine,” Conan sighs. “Lead the way.” He follows Swift, engrossed in his datapad. Tarkin has forwarded an amended list of potential Rebel strongholds from Intel—he ought to give this a good look when he has a chance. The rest of his inbox is filled with message chains between Tagge, Colonel Yularen—

“Breathmint, Sir?” Swift proffers Admiral Motti a small mint encased in a white wrapper.

Conan, preoccupied with the black rectangle in his grasp, grumbles something and holds out a gloved hand, and the mint is promptly deposited into it.

Swift meanwhile pops his own mint and waves away Motti’s stormtroopers. “Internal Affairs. Top secret stuff. High level personnel only.”

They walk for about ten minutes through dark halls black and glowing blue, until they reach a turbolift. Conan mumbles something about a stupid party being arranged for Tarkin’s aide, who he doesn’t give a shit about but will have to show his face for regardless.

“I have _better_ things to do than eat stale cake and have old men _talk_ at me,” Conan bristles.

Swift makes an empathetic sound, setting the course for the turbolift. “That you do, Conan.”

They keep walking. When Conan finally tucks away his datapad, he looks around at the quiet, sterile halls and frowns. “Th…this isn’t the Internal Affairs office. This is the officer’s quarters deck.” Surely he’s not mistaken. He _knows_ the layout of a Destroyer—they’re all the same, aren’t they?

“Correct you are.” Swift smiles his happy-go-lucky smile and stops in front of a sealed door, unlocking it.

Conan, quickly sensing that his authority is slipping, glares and takes a half-step back. “What’s the meaning of this? I-I’m going to the Internal Affairs office.”

Swift’s blue eyes are intense, unrelenting as he advances. “It’s all right, Sir.”

Before Conan can bolt, Swift has him by the arm. “Conan.”

Motti swallows anxiously at the utterance of his name, his heart pounding viciously, his dark blue eyes growing wide. “What do you want of me, Talfryn?”

“Coincidentally, I was about to ask you the same thing.”

The stillness in the air is deafening, a silence so loud that neither of the men can bear it. Talfryn takes a steadying breath and with one bold jerk of his arm, pulls Conan through the open door of his quarters and locks it behind them. What follows is a few tense moments of resistance and scuffling and Conan stammering incoherently about the evils of fraternization. It ends with a rough collision against the nearest vertical surface and Swift silencing Conan with his mouth, pulse racing and driven with an extraordinary desire to keep this moment suspended indefinitely. With his back pressed to the wall, Conan ceases struggling, his grip on Talfryn’s uniform going limp.

In a bout of white-hot sheer ringing panic, he closes his eyes in great distress as Talfryn warmly kisses his neck, prying his collar down.

The moment passes. Conan exhales softly, his labored breathing leveling out, Talfryn’s hair tickling his jawline.

“Oh, Sir…” Talfryn whispers, eyes repentant and concerned as he lifts his gaze. “…was it too much?”

“We could…” Conan pauses to catch his breath. “Take it down a notch. Small steps. Incremental.”

Talfryn smiles broadly, kindly. “Of course, Conan. Anything for you.” He idly strokes Conan’s flushed cheek. “….you’re still into those history books, aren’t you?”

Conan nods.

“What do you say to a cuddle and long, in-depth discussion about the works of Pennelegion?” Swift ventures hopefully.

“You read Pennelegion?” Conan blinks.

“I dabble,” Swift replies. “A little here and there. So….” He lifts Conan’s chin and presses a chaste kiss to his lips. “How about it?”

And finally Conan Motti, for probably the first time in his life, relaxes quite firmly and decisively into a silent smile of utmost gratitude, thoroughly defeated.


End file.
